


the earth will hold me here (until you decide to stay)

by lionofstone



Series: Hold Me Here [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, and also merlin choose immortality and it makes me cry, and although i wouldn't exactly call this merlin fanfic you could probably read it as such, anyway it's worth noting that most of camelot knowledge comes from the merlin tv show, but i never finished the show so there are probably some differences, in circumstance etc, inner me: do it write the sequel and plan a third part too, me: don't write a sequel for this weird au that no one cares about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:04:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8869729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionofstone/pseuds/lionofstone
Summary: The letter from Harry Potter reads: MerlinThe name Arthur Pendragon has just appeared on Hogwarts enrolment list. It could be a coincidence, but I thought you’d want to know. Your story says he’ll come again, maybe this is it.Talk soon,Harry Merlin lets the letter fall out of his hands and onto the floor. The owl has already left, most likely sensing that Merlin isn’t the sort to feed it treats or stroke it’s beak. He stands there, alone, in the middle of his flat, and he tries to wrap his head around the news. The implications of a magickal Arthur…Merlin breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote more! Because this story/idea/au/whatever just wouldn't leave me alone. As I said in the tags, my knowledge of Camelot/Arthurian Legend is limited, but I do care about this story and these characters. It's my own interpretation, but you can probably project you're preferred Merlin and Arthur onto them, if you so choose <3
> 
> I like writing these because they're low-stress and fun, and something outside of my usual project. Let me know if you enjoy reading them, too, because I'd love to scream about them with people!!

He didn’t mean to become immortal. It wasn’t premeditated and it wasn’t his birthright; it was a promise. Over the years since, he’d been offered ways out, handed silver daggers and steaming cups and magick spells that all promote _relief, escape, death_ — but Merlin has never once broken a promise. If he promised to live forever and a day, then he will live forever and a day. 

The last words that Arthur ever heard, as he lay dying by the lake, were Merlin promising that he would be waiting for his King, when he returned. The last words Arthur ever heard were Merlin promising to live forever and a day, if necessary. Merlin would not break this promise. He would not let the last words Arthur ever heard be a lie. 

Sure, as time goes on he drifts farther and farther from hope— _surely_ , he thinks, a thousand years in, _if Arthur was going to come back, he would’ve by now_ — but even as he loses hope in Arthur’s return, he never even entertains the idea of willful death. He imagines dying, a few times, while jumping out of windows with Godric, or sitting in the cold dark of Salazar’s chamber, but he can’t imagine… willingly taking it. Willingly breaking that promise he made, in Arthur’s dying moments. 

Besides, he thinks he’s died a hundred times in his lifetime, just in subtler ways. 

He remembers his hand, cold from the water of Avalon splashing over it, and he remembers Arthur’s dying face and bright red blood, and he remembers begging, “Speak to me!” 

The being in the lake— not a lady, like he’d first thought; something other, when he looked closer— the being’s words hover in the back of his mind whenever he feels like giving up. The being said, “Your King will return. Will you be waiting for him, when he does?” 

And Merlin had said, “Yes, of course.” 

Because how could he have said anything else, when Arthur’s head was resting on his thighs, and he was dying? Of course, he would wait for Arthur. He thinks he would do anything for Arthur. 

So, he lives. He travels around, experiences magick in all it’s forms. He watches his race- the sorcerers- die out. He spends time with the druids. He learns of creatures that non-magickal people don’t know of. He ends up at Hogwarts, with the founders, and he makes friends with witches and wizards. He has his hand in the battle of Hogwarts and he tells the Boy Who Lived Twice to make it better. 

He doesn’t get involved aggressively or intentionally, usually. But the wizarding community is comforting, and Helga promised him a home here, so he sits in wizarding bars from time to time and he hears rumours. He hears that Harry Potter has just been hired as the newest Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and he smiles. Things are getting better, he thinks. Things are going the right way.

He wonders if it’s a sign, if this means Arthur will be returning, soon. Wasn’t Arthur’s destiny to bring magick back to the land? If things are getting better for magickal people, maybe… 

If he closes his eyes, he can just about see it happening. 

It’s three years later, and Merlin is half asleep in his flat in Brighton when he hears an owl tapping on his window. It takes him a moment to remember that owls carry wizarding post— living forever leaves plenty of room for gaps in memory— but when he does, he’s not surprised that it’s a letter from Harry Potter. The only wizards who ever write to him are Harry Potter and Luna Lovegood, and Luna has, more recently, been teleporting to his doorstep, instead. (He knows that teleporting isn’t the word she used, she she explained it, but it’s what it is, plain and simple, so Merlin doesn’t care.) 

The letter from Harry Potter reads: 

_Merlin_

_The name Arthur Pendragon has just appeared on Hogwarts enrolment list. It could be a coincidence, but I thought you’d want to know. Your story says he’ll come again, maybe this is it._

_Talk soon,_

_Harry_

Merlin lets the letter fall out of his hands and onto the floor. The owl has already left, most likely sensing that Merlin isn’t the sort to feed it treats or stroke it’s beak. He stands there, alone, in the middle of his flat, and he tries to wrap his head around the news. 

The implications of a magickal Arthur…

Merlin breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth. 

He visits Saint Mungos, and hides among the throng of new fathers in the maternity ward. He knows Arthur the minute he sees him, some tug in his stomach that tells him his waiting is over. But it’s not, not really, because Arthur is literally a _baby_ and Merlin can’t, won’t, doesn’t feel right saying anything about anything until Arthur is an adult. But he’d had to see, with his own eyes, to be sure that Harry was right and that Arthur was on his way back to him. 

He smiles, the slightest upturn of his lip, and he disappears back into the non-magickal world. 

Eleven years pass, and he can’t forget, no matter how much he throws himself into other things. The feeling in his stomach doesn’t go away, it can’t go away. His wait is over. Arthur is home. How many centuries has he been waiting? How long has he been missing his King? 

Eleven years pass, and he receives an invitation from Harry Potter to attend the sorting ceremony. _After all,_ he writes, _you always have a home at Hogwarts_. Merlin refuses. He thinks it might be… not exactly _wrong_ but… odd, to see Arthur when he’s just a kid. After the sorting, he receives another letter. It isn’t named or dated, but it tells him: _Arthur Pendragon is the newest member of the Gryffindor house. What do you think of that?_

And Merlin writes back _I always thought Godric would’ve liked him_ with no hesitation. 

He’s not even surprised, and, in some strange way, he’s proud. Arthur is Godric’s. 

Another year in and another letter. Harry’s handwriting is familiar, regardless of how few and far between his letters are. This time, the handwriting looks off, wrong, like something is worrying him. The letter doesn’t ask, it tells him to come, and Merlin knows better than to refuse. 

“Tell me again what exactly happened,” Harry demands, as soon as they are locked away in his office. “When Arthur died, what happened, who was there, what did you say?” 

Merlin watches Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley wave out of a picture on the desk, and he has to wonder why Harry is asking him this. Is there some plot in his life— unsurprising, really— that has him contemplating immortality? And, if so, is Harry not already the master of death? 

But Merlin will address the issue after he answers the question. He says, “Arthur was dying, and we were on the shores of the Lake Avalon. I was begging him to stay.” 

There’s a sort of detachment in his voice, the sort that only comes after a millennia of distance and knowing that _he’s back_. He says it like it’s fact, like he’s reading someone else’s account, not his own. 

“The Lake Avalon is alive. It’s magick. There’s a spirit, there, and they came to me, and said ‘Your King will return. Will you be waiting for him, when he does?’ And I said yes, because what else would I say?"

Harry stares at him, then hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Merlin feels a chill go up his spine. “I’m sorry, but… I think it may just be coincidence. He doesn’t… he doesn’t remember you.” 

Merlin swallows. “What do you mean?” 

“I’ve— I’ve asked, you know. He’s amazing in my class, always seems like a good fighter. I let him hold the Sword Of Gryffindor, once, and he knew exactly how to. It seemed like I was right, but, uh…” Harry shakes his head. “But he doesn’t seem to know anything about you beyond the stories that get passed around here. Rumours, you know, only some of them true.” 

Merlin wants to ask about the rumours, but he doesn’t. 

“Harry Potter,” he says instead. “Magick remembers words like mine. And when I saw Arthur, I knew. He’s back, and that’s him, and you were right. Maybe memory comes later. Maybe when he’s older, when he’s an adult, a… wizard.” 

He’s not sure if he’s convincing Harry or if he’s convincing himself, but he says it like he believes it, and a part of him does. 

(It’s strange, to be applying the word _wizard_ to Arthur Pendragon, but he does so anyway.)

“You said he was good in your class?” 

“Yes,” Harry says, a smile on his face. “Would you like to see?” 

He still doesn’t feel right, interacting with Arthur when Arthur is still just a kid, but he does want to see, so he nods. He doesn’t need a cloak to become invisible, he has his own spells for that, and he walks a half-step behind Harry, following him through the corridors of Hogwarts to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. 

He watches student’s file in, red and gold around their necks, and he thinks _Godric_ , and then he sees Arthur walk in, at the very back, and he thinks _My King._

Arthur is the last in, but he’s got his eyes on the kid in front of him, a dark boy with messy hair and Merlin can’t help but remember how Arthur watched his Knights, Merlin’s friends. How easily Arthur kept count of them, made sure they were all safe. It was their duty to protect their King, but Arthur protected them, in turn, because he wanted to. 

Merlin watches the students light up when Harry promises them a practical lesson. He watches Arthur’s gaze switch, sharply, to the dark boy next to him. Something tells Merlin that the dark boy needs protecting, and when Arthur is sure to pair up with him, his suspicions are confirmed. 

Watching Arthur do magick is something otherworldly. He’s not sure how to describe it. He remembers being young— not quite so young as this Arthur, but young enough— practicing magick in secret by Arthur’s side, eyes wide and hands spread. He sees Arthur, here, a wand in his hand, throwing out spells like it’s natural to him. And Merlin supposes that it is. Arthur has magick, now, here, and he thinks that it might make things better. 

He makes himself visible again, after, when there is quiet in the classroom and only Harry is left. 

“So?” Harry prompts. 

“You were right. He is good.” Merlin saw Arthur in Godric and now he sees Godric in Arthur, but he doesn’t know how to explain that to Harry. It’s the price of living so long. It’s the price of losing someone so long ago, only to get them back, different. 

He has loved people in Camelot and he has loved people in Hogwarts and now he has loved Arthur in both. 

As soon as he can, he slips away from Harry, saying that he really must get going. He goes to the girls toilets and stares into a grubby mirror and ignores Myrtle’s moaning, because ghosts are not his forte, and he really doesn’t care to answer her questions.

Arthur doesn’t remember Merlin. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe this whole trip was a mistake. Merlin has waited thousands of years to see his King again, but his King is just a boy, and Merlin has never felt so old. 

He stares at his reflection in the dirty mirror and thinks _wrong wrong wrong_ on an endless loop.

He saw Arthur in Godric and now he sees Godric in Arthur, but it wasn’t Godric who he surrendered to within these walls. He remembers Salazar’s hands, he remembers green along his neck (and bruises, blue and purple), he remembers giving everything up because he was still mourning, and Camelot’s ashes hadn’t quite worked themselves off of his boots. 

He’d come apart under Salazar’s hands, but he still loved Arthur best of all. 

He ignores Harry’s letters for the next five years. Harry, for his part, doesn’t tell him anything he doesn’t want to know. His letters say _Arthur reads about you, sometimes_ and _he’s a good man_. 

Merlin holds out hope, and he wishes, but Arthur’s seventeenth birthday comes and he’s an adult now, a wizard of age, but Harry’s letter just reads _nothing’s different_ , and Merlin does his best to swallow his disappointment. He thinks everything would be easier, if Arthur only remembered. But Arthur doesn’t, and all of his waiting, all this time, _wasted_ for a King who doesn’t know his title. 

He comes back to Hogwarts. 

He wears green around his neck, as he always has, when he’s visited the school. It was… a sign, a symbol, something to tie him to Slytherin. Because he was Slytherin’s student, and he would always be proud of that. The green on his neck is a mark of who he is, and he knows that it’s working because students whisper as he walks by. 

“They say,” he hears a young Slytherin whisper to her Gryffindor friend, “that Merlin Emrys wore green like that at the Battle of Hogwarts. They say he came and spoke to our house, got them to fight. They say he wears green like that whenever he visits.” 

“Are you saying that’s Merlin?” the Gryffindor replies, and Merlin is seconds away from saying ‘spread the word’ when he sees Arthur. Arthur, stood half-way down a set of stairs, Gryffindor’s tie around his neck. Arthur, staring back at him, and for a moment Merlin’s heart soars. 

But then he remembers the rumours, tossed around, and that maybe Arthur has just heard them. 

So he ducks his head and carries on, finds himself in Harry’s office in no time at all. And Harry seems unsurprised to see him, which Merlin is equal parts ashamed and glad of. Is he so predictable? Oh, but he always has been, when it comes to Arthur. 

“I saw him,” are the first words out of Merlin’s mouth. “I saw him and he stared at me but he didn’t… see me.” 

It was easier when Arthur was just a kid, and Merlin didn’t expect anything of him. It was easier when he knew his wait was over and his King was back but he didn’t need anything else. But it’s been seventeen years since Harry’s first letter and he’s waited thousands for this and he’s _tired_ , damn it, he wants… 

He wants Arthur back, selfishly. 

He’s loved Arthur for centuries and he can’t stop loving him now, and he wants him back. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry is saying. “I don’t know… I’m sorry.” 

Merlin sits down wordlessly. His head drops into his hands. He doesn’t cry (it’s a sort of acquired numbness, he thinks, it’s been years since he’s cried) but he imagines it. He aches. He’s been waiting so long. 

“You told me— you told me that you’re an old man who misses his friends,” Harry says, taking the chair next to Merlin. “I thought you were talking about the Founders.” 

“I was,” Merlins says. “And I wasn’t.” 

“He’s here, at least?” He says it like a question. 

“He’s here, at least,” Merlin agrees. 

Lake Avalon hasn’t changed, in all the years since Arthur died on its shores. Merlin steps into the area and feels like he’s been transported back in time. Every rock, every drop of water, even the wind seems to echo the way things once were. It’s a place of stasis. He wonders why he hasn’t come back here before. 

(He glances down and thinks he sees Arthur’s blood still bright red against the dirt— impossible— and remembers why he’s avoided this place.) 

It would be so easy to scream into the lake, to shout and throw stones and demand— 

But Merlin has never been that sort. _Soft_ , he remembers Lancelot saying, once, a gloved hand mussing up Merlin’s hair. _Gentle,_ Gawain, another time. He bites on the inside of his cheek and wonders if they would say the same now. He feels old, ancient, and he misses them. 

Instead of shouting, he reaches down, touches his fingers to the water and says, “Speak to me.” 

The being appears just as suddenly as they had the first time. 

“Emrys,” the being says. “Your King has returned. Have you found him yet?” 

“I have,” Merlin says, sharp. “He doesn’t remember me. Why doesn’t he remember me?” 

The being is quiet, contemplative, for long enough that Merlin considers magick. 

“Avalon hides many things, Emrys. Things that people don’t want to loose. Excalibur was hidden here, you will recall. As he was dying here, your King didn’t want to lose himself." 

“That doesn’t make sense!” Merlin half-shouts, frustration evident for the first time in the whole ordeal. “What does that even _mean_? He’s not hidden in this lake, he’s out there— he’s at Hogwarts, he’s magick, now, and he doesn’t remember me!” 

“You waited for him this long, Emrys. What’s one more day?” 

“Are you saying that he’ll remember tomorrow, or are you being metaphoric?” 

The being only smiles. 

He waits. He waits another twenty-four hours, because sometimes riddles are literal, and Merlin doesn’t want to play with magick that he doesn’t understand. And he’s never understood wizards and witch’s magick, and Arthur is one of them now. Twenty-four hours he waits, and other changes. 

Scotland is cold, this time of year. 

Before, in Camelot, Arthur’s birthday had been two days before Midsummer’s Eve. He’d been summer’s child, a blond set on the back of a horse. Celebrations had always conflated with the Midsummer’s festival, and Merlin had always felt Arthur most profoundly in the heat of August. 

This time around, he is from December. Winter touches Arthur with her cold fingers, and Arthur refuses. Merlin can see the set of his jaw is the same, the curve of his smile. He’s always found magick in birthdays, but Arthur is still summer’s child, regardless. If Merlin was more patient, he would wait for Midsummer, he would wait until Arthur’s true birthday, just to see. 

But he’s tired, he aches, and his sick of magickal beings giving him riddles to solve instead of answers. His sick of waiting for his King to return, for his King to answer. His sick of watching people around him grow old and die and leave him here. 

(It’s been twenty-one years since the battle of Hogwarts, and it’s starting to show on Harry’s face. The Boy Who Lived Twice is still a long way from death, but Merlin would rather not see it, when it comes.) 

“I went to Avalon,” he tells Harry, as they walk circles around the lake on Hogwarts grounds. “The being there told me— that it’s a place where people put things they don’t want to loose. And that, as Arthur was dying there, he didn’t want to lose himself.” 

“You’d be better off asking Hermione about this,” Harry says. “She’s always been better at riddles and logic than me.” 

“I’m tired of living,” Merlin says. “I lived thousands of years with no complaint, and I was fine, but now he’s here but not… here, and I am tired of being alive.” 

“Ask Hermione,” Harry presses. “Please.” 

So Merlin does. He uses fire-magick, a wizarding thing, and sees her head in the flames. He lets out a surprised squeak, and Hermione laughs at him. “Merlin,” she says warmly. “I haven’t heard from you in some time.” 

“I don’t keep in contact with many, these days. It makes it harder when they…” He shrugs. “And besides, I would’ve thought that the minister for magic would be busy with other things.” 

He’s kneeling on Harry’s office floor, and Hermione is kneeling on her own office floor. She smiles. “The last of the sorcerers? Of course I have time for you, Merlin Emrys.” 

“I have a logic puzzle for you,” he says, and he explains, in detail, everything that happened on Avalon’s shores. “What does that mean? He didn’t want to loose himself… well, who does, when they’re dying?” 

Hermione frowns. “It sounds like a Pensieve… A place to put things you don’t want to loose… he didn’t want to loose himself… Arthur didn’t want to forget, so his memories went into Avalon’s water. It’s holding his memories, just waiting for him to collect them!” 

Merlin looks up at Harry, who’s staring at Hermione like he can’t quite believe that she’s real. 

“Of course,” Harry says. “When I use mine, I don’t remember that memory, but I still… feel it, feel it missing. Arthur stares at you because he knows you but can’t remember you. He reads books about you and soaks up every rumour he hears because he can _feel_ it, still.” 

Merlin stares between the friends. “What the hell is a Pensieve?” 

Harry shows him. It’s smaller than Merlin would’ve thought, filled with a clear liquid and bits of white… something that logic tells him must be memories. Hermione had ended the fire-call for a meeting, but had made Harry promise to tell her everything. Merlin stares at the Pensieve and thinks that maybe she should’ve stuck around. 

He reaches a hand into the liquid before Harry can tell him otherwise and says, “Speak to me.” 

The being appears just as suddenly as ever. 

Harry startles, wand out, but Merlin smiles at the being like an old friend. 

“Emrys,” the being says. “Your King has returned. Have you found him yet?” 

“I’m on my way to,” he replies, and removes his hand. 

Harry stares at the space where the being was. “Was that… Avalon?” 

“Yes,” Merlin replies. “I think that Pensieves are made from Avalon’s waters. Wizards! Using sorcerer’s magick! Not as clever as you all think, are you?” 

“Is Avalon sorcerer’s magick? I thought it was a force of nature.” 

Merlin is too giddy to give a comeback. (And Harry’s right, anyway.) 

The giddiness lasts about three more seconds before Merlin looks back at Harry with wide eyes. “How am I going to get Arthur to collect his memories?” 

“Tell him who you are, he’ll go with you.” 

“And what about school? It’s his final year, doesn’t he have… exams, and things?” 

“He’s Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King. I’m sure I can pull some string.” 

“No,” Merlin shakes his head. “No, let him study. I’ve waited this long, what’s a few more months?” 

Harry smiles in a sad sort of way. “At least introduce yourself now.” 

Harry calls Arthur into his office after Defence Against the Dark Arts that very day, and Merlin is waiting there. It feels like all he ever does is wait for Arthur, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind anymore, because there’s an endpoint now, he knows it’s only a few more months. 

Arthur is every bit the King he once was, even if he doesn’t know it. Merlin smiles at him, as he walks in— beams, really— and Arthur smiles fondly back. Merlin can read the confusion on his face when he realises he doesn’t know where the fondness comes from. It all makes _sense_ now. 

“Arthur, I want you to meet someone,” Harry says, gesturing. “This is Merlin Emrys.” 

Arthur stares, wide-eyed, and Merlin almost wants to laugh. 

“I’ve… heard rumours,” Arthur says, softly. “They say you’re a different kind of magick. They say you helped in the Battle of Hogwarts. They say you wear green around your neck whoever you visit because you were Slytherin’s.” 

He wants to say _I was Slytherin’s, for a time, but in my core I have always been yours_ , but he doesn’t. He just smiles even wider. “All those things are true,” he says instead. He has to stop himself from saying _sire._

It’s easy, easier than he thought it would be, to slide back into Arthur’s life. Arthur is seventeen, a man, a wizard, and Merlin feels like he’s eighteen again, a boy, walking into Camelot for the first time. Merlin was promised a home at Hogwarts, but Merlin has always made his home out of people. He lives in Hogwarts’s walls, but it’s Arthur that he’s coming home to. 

He tells Arthur, “I want to take you somewhere when you’ve finished school.” Arthur doesn’t have to think about it before he’s agreeing. 

It’s late, just before finals— N.E.W.T.s, Arthur calls them, but Merlin thinks thats a dumb name— and they’re outside, laying on the grass. Arthur had been trying to revise for Astronomy, but Merlin had distracted him by pointing at random stars and saying ‘that’s a sorcerer’. Arthur had shot back that sorcerer’s didn’t become stars, and Merlin had spent the better part of an hour trying to convince him otherwise. It hadn’t worked, which was okay, because it wasn’t true. 

Arthur’s notes are scattered across the grass, and Merlin is keeping them from flying away with a bit of magick. They’re looking at the stars, still, but talking about other, closer things. 

“You know,” Arthur said, soft, gentle, like he thought he might regret it. “I feel more myself when I’m with you. Like, before I met you, I was grasping at straws trying to find you. Rumours and books, like something was missing. I’m better when you’re here. I’m more whole.” 

Merlin hums, closes his eyes, and feels loved. _It’s important to be loved_ , Helga had said, a long time ago, and Merlin had replied, _It’s important to remember what it’s like, when you’re not._ How could he remember this? How could he have hoped to remember this feeling?

He smiles, and loves, and says, “I’m more whole with you here, too.” 

Arthur passes his exams with flying colours, a surprise to nobody, but Merlin still feigns shock when he tells him. It’s July, now, but the air isn’t quite so sticky hot as it is in August. Merlin is waiting for that. It’s always been when he liked Arthur best. It works out okay, really, because Arthur has other things to do that month before he can go gallivanting off with a sorcerer. He’s got work to think about, and family, and he’ll be back before Midsummer’s, anyway. 

So Merlin wastes away July with card games and finally selling that flat in Brighton that he hasn’t visited in months and he misses Arthur by his side. But it’s a normal sort of _miss_ , now, a kind that leaves him excited for his King’s return. 

_Soon_ , he thinks he hears Avalon whispering to him, from so far away. _Soon, and all shall be well._

Arthur is back two days before Midsummer’s, and there’s a set in his jaw that wasn’t there before. Merlin wants to say _Happy Birthday_ , to make him smile, but he doesn’t remember, yet. Instead he asks, “Are you okay?” 

Arthur answers, “I can’t stay with you all month. I have an apprenticeship in two weeks.” 

Merlin blinks. 

“Ministry,” Arthur sighs. “It’s a good place to start. I’d like… I’d like to do good in this world, to help people, and… maybe this is where to start.” 

Merlin breaks into a grin and says, “Two weeks is enough time.” 

While they travel, stopping here and there in towns both wizarding and muggle, Merlin tells Arthur, “I think you’d be a great minister, you know.” And Arthur laughs, but Merlin can tell that he’s thinking about it.

They make to Avalon a week in. It looks different, in this early morning. It’s August, now, and he can’t stop staring at Arthur. It’s August, now, and he’s about to get his King back. 

“What is this?” Arthur demands, and there’s an undercurrent of something cold in his voice. Merlin doesn’t know what to say. Arthur is staring at the ground, right by the shore. “That’s blood,” he says, his breath picking up. “That’s blood, Merlin, what’s going on?” 

Merlin is just surprised that Arthur can see the blood, too. He’d thought it was a trick of the light. He’d thought it was his own memory, projecting. But Avalon stores things and the blood is still there, as fresh as the day it was spilt. 

He doesn’t answer Arthur’s question. Maybe he should, maybe he should sit down and explain how his magic works, how long he’s been waiting for this. But he _has_ been waiting, for so long, and he’s growing impatient. So instead, he kneels down, right in the dirt, right by the blood, and reaches his hand into the water and says, “Speak to me.” 

The being doesn’t startle him anymore, but Arthur jumps as they appear. “Emrys,” the being smiles. “You’ve brought your King to me, again.” 

Merlin looks up, smiles brighter than the sun, and says, “Yes, I have. Arthur Pendragon, this is Avalon.” 

“Avalon…?” Arthur repeats. “The lake?” 

“Yes,” the being says. 

“King…?” Arthur says, looking between Merlin and the being. “King?” 

“Come here,” Merlin says, gesturing with his hand that’s not in the water. Arthur approaches, tentatively, but Merlin takes his hand and guides it into the lake anyway. Arthur stares, at their hands together, at the lake, and Merlin wonders what’s supposed to happen. 

Arthur asks the being, “Have I been here before?”  
  
And the being smiles.

“Why can’t I remember it?” He asks. “I can feel it, but I can’t remember it.”

“Would you like to?” the being asks, and Merlin’s breath catches. 

Arthur doesn’t look at him, but he says, “Yes, of course.” 

There’s nothing particularly dramatic about it. Merlin stares at Arthur like he’s made of gold. 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, after a few long moments of silence. “Merlin.”

The way he says his name has changed, and Merlin waits, again, just a little bit more, with baited breath. This is it, this is what he’s been waiting for. Thousands of years, a promise never broken, he’s been waiting for this, for Arthur to look at him like this again. 

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes again, and then Merlin is overwhelmed with the feeling of two arms around him. He pulls Arthur every closer to him, holding him there, with him, and he thinks he might never let go. 

The morning sun breaks, reflecting and refracting against the water. Merlin grips at the back of Arthur’s clothes, and Arthur’s face is in his neck, and their knees ache from kneeling for so long, but they’re together. 

Finally. 


End file.
